


whole lotta hurt

by guardianoffun



Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: Blood and Injury, Episode: s06e04 Degüello, Gen, Graphic Description of Corpses, Gun Violence, Kidnapping, Minor Character Death, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Stabbing, Tags May Change, Whumptober 2019
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-01
Updated: 2019-10-06
Packaged: 2020-11-09 10:15:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 2,781
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20851790
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/guardianoffun/pseuds/guardianoffun
Summary: a drabble collection for whumptober/inktober 2019 prompts, a random character per prompt for some fun angsty times, let's see how far I can take this!





	1. shaky hands

**Author's Note:**

> imaginationtherpay reminded me abt this! i wanted to try so here's my attempt lol, bear in mind im bust and also have like 6 ongoing wips rn but i thought this would be a good exercise in writing 300 - 500 word things and just Posting them so yeh these will mostly end up being just little scenes and not fully fleshed out or anything lol im also using inktober prompts as like, a bonus prompts where i need them. im also using a random name selector for each prompt so like, this could get a bit weird, and there probably will be repeat characters, but if there's someone uv not seen and u want me to try 'em lemme know i'll try and give it a go! 
> 
> I'll try to tag most Big things but there'll be content warnings for each chapter so you can avoid if u need to
> 
> 01/31 - Shaky Hands + Ring, Fancy ft. stab wounds and bleeding

The pain in his gut was so blinding, George Fancy could hardly see. He was curled in on himself, facedown on the dirty kitchen floor of the suspect's apartment, suspect himself already fled leaving Fancy with a rather impressive knife to the gut. He tried to reach for it, despite knowing that was a bad idea. It was only the fact his hands shook too much to do anything that stopped him ripping the thing out. 

A low moan escaped him, a cry catching in his chest as he pulled himself upright. Trembling arms only just held him up as he shuffled his way into an almost sitting position. Catching sight of himself he almost keeled right back over, palms and shirt slick with blood; way more than seemed healthy to lose. There was a rational voice in him somewhere, telling him to call for help, to find someone, but a much louder part just wanted to cry, a lot. After letting himself gasp in pain for a moment or so, Fancy snapped his jaw shut and inched his way towards the door. There was a phone, he remembered seeing it, on the counter just by the door. He just had to make it across the kitchen. 

It took longer than it should have, his legs deciding to give up the ghost, leaving him to pull himself along. By the time he slumped up against the counter, his heart was pounding so hard it hurt, and he was soaked with sweat. 

With some manoeuvring, he got himself to his knees, and with a quick prayer, he shot out his hand. The phone came crashing to the floor and he threw himself at it. His breaths were coming short and fast as he punched in the station’s number, and each ring sounded further and further away. On the fifth ring, someone picked up. There was enough air in him to rattle off the address and his name, before his sinks into the cupboard and the receiver falls from his hand.


	2. explosion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 02/31 - explosions + mindless, DeBryn ft. Degüello spoilers and multiple minor character deaths
> 
> im also writing this one with the hc that max and monica are friends bc u can pry that particular hc out of my cold dead hands bich!! not sure how happy i am w this one, and it's probably more emotional whump that anything else but yh, poor max, this life can take it's toll on u

They still don’t know what caused it, it’s too early for that, but gas-pipe, attack or shoddy workmanship, the result is the same. Cranmer house has fallen, and there are bodies. Max isn’t first on the scene, he wasn’t even on today. He had been in the kitchen at the time, fixing himself a cup of tea before his Corrie reruns started - he enjoyed the mindless dramatics of it, alright, and that Ken Barlow wasn’t half bad either - when the sound of breaking news rang out at the same time his phone went off. 

With a pit in his stomach, he half watched the pictures flicking past as Monica’s shaky voice met his ears. 

“It’s all hands on deck, Max and there’s- so many… “ He was already reaching for his coat by the time she finished. 

Now Max had always thought himself very adept at his job, and that wasn’t cockiness, it was simply true. Not only that, he was good at managing his job, unlike some detectives he could name; god at keeping work and home separate, keeping himself removed from the death and horror he dealt with during office hours. But every once in a while, there was something like this. Last time, it had been a young girl that brought an ache to his heart and that pain had been sharp, raw. It had been a red hot poker of anger, sharpening his focus but this was different. 

This was a hollow sort of feeling, a dizzying stretch of hall lined with bodies. They ran out of hospital issue sheets at one point, some of them were wrapped in bedsheets instead. Max was almost horrified how easily his hands went to work, cataloging each broken bone and caved in cranium. He was doing what had to be done, but that didn’t make it any better. It still left him feeling numb, all bar a tight ball of bitterness in his chest. It threatened to tear out of him the moment he heard Box’s blasted lighter go, and he couldn’t stop himself snapping at him. 

The arrogant bastard might run the show at Thames Valley, but his type of police procedure didn’t mean much here, in the hall of the dead. He said nothing though, didn’t make the scathing comment on the tip of his tongue. He had more important things to do, so ignored Box and Jago as they left, they weren’t worth his time. Max turned his head back to the body he was kneeling beside and took up his gloves once again. The flash of anger simmered on, becoming an awful white noise to the monstrous job he had to do. 

It was only later, trussed up in the back of a beaten up truck and unable to see that he realised Jago’s role in it all. The bitter, painful feeling returned, burning its way through his chest, and it did not dissipate till he saw Jago’s body being carted off.


	3. delirium

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 03/31 - delirum + bait, Morse ft. kidnapping and un-consensual drug use
> 
> im not particularly thrilled w this one but any excuse to write a drugged up morse right?

Morse did not feel very good, in fact he felt rather terrible. Everything felt very… spinny, for lack of a better word. He berated himself for not having a better word, but it felt like his head was full of cotton wool and finding words in it was very difficult. As he turned his head to try and get his bearings, the room span around him and he felt like he was falling backwards; impossible though, because he found quite quickly that he was tied to a chair. It was dark too, which didn’t help matters. He felt almost as if he were drunk, but drink usually made his mind sharper and anyways he didn’t take to drinking in dingy basement very often. 

His eyes slowly adjusted to the darkness, and he was able to pick out a few details. There were a set of stairs in the corner, a beaten up sofa in front of him and an upturned box beside him. There was something laid out on the box but he couldn’t quite turn his head enough to see it. Swinging his head around the other way, he found a pole, attached to an IV bag which he followed with his eyes until he found the needle pressed very carefully into his left arm. 

“Strange,” he muttered, unsure how he had missed that until now. It would explain the fogginess though. He wondered if perhaps he should be a little more worried about whatever was slowly trickling into him but found it very hard to drag up any feeling of fear. That was probably not very good either. As he mulled over this strange feelings of numb indifference, the door above the stairs creaked open. Heavy footsteps stomped towards him, and a gruff voice swore. 

“Bastard's woken up,” he called out, and someone from the doorway called something back that Morse couldn’t quite catch. Then there was a  _ whoosh  _ of air as something heavy collided with the side of his head. 

When he woke again, Morse felt remarkably better. His head felt lighter, albeit a little sticky. His extremities no longer felt numb, instead they were a nice sort of warm. He glanced down and saw his arms were still bound, tied to the arms of the chair but his fingers were still free. He waggled them, and then heard himself chuckle at it. He watched as his fingers danced through the air, humming along with it. From somewhere in the distance there was an almighty crash. Still watching his own hands in fascination, Morse nodded solemnly. 

“They’re here,” he said to no-one in particular. He wasn’t sure who  _ they  _ were, but within minutes they were crashing through the door to his room. He ignored them though, because there were lights now dancing around his fingers and that was far more interesting than the noise. 

Then there were hands on his shoulders, so he shrugged them off. A voice, close to his ear surprised him. 

“Morse, son, it’s me,” someone said, their hands coming to untie his. 

“Be quiet,” he told them. 

“What the hell have you given him?” Another voice rang out, and somebody laughed. It might have been Morse. He found himself suddenly pulled from his chair, and the room span again. A man stood in front of him, someone he recognised, sort of. Older, kind eyes, a fatherly type of face. He had no idea who he was though. 

“Are you a doctor?” he asked. The man looked pained. “No, Morse I’m-” the laughing started up again, not Morse this time. A wheezing voice.

“Look, you got your precious detective back, Inspector-” it said. “Now let’s talk about what  _ I  _ want.” 


	4. human shield

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 04/31 - human shield + freezing, Morse and Thursday ft. stabbing 
> 
> WARNING FOR depictions of corpses and descriptions of injury 
> 
> im actually quite pleased with this one, despite it barely being the 4th still lol but imma count it.

Autumn had come around quickly, and left just as fast. The leaves fell and within weeks, were mulch underneath a good few inches of snow. The cuffs of Thursday’s trousers were damp with it as he stomped up the driveway, an unpleasant reminder of the time of year. He pulled his coat a little tighter, wishing he’d picked up a scarf or something. 

Behind him, Morse shuffled through the snow, footsteps swallowed by it. They marched up the path to the house, intending to question Mrs. Arelene Reid, the wife of their current missing person, Arthur Reid. Thursday raised a hand to knock at the door, but found it fell open under at the lightest touch. Well honed bells started ringing, and he glanced back at Morse with a frown. Morse nodded, understanding and the two made their way in silently. 

The hallway was nothing too out of the ordinary, a little messy perhaps but nothing suspicious. The living room they passed through seemed fine too, and Morse ducked into the study and came back shaking his head. Thursday stepped into the kitchen though, and gasped. 

Someone, presumably Mrs. Reid, had been interrupted mid-baking; there were pans and trays and bowls everywhere. A bottle of something fruity lay shattered on the floor, pooling in a sticky puddle under the table and there was flour everywhere. Morse headed for the backdoor, crouched beside something as Thursday looked along the countertops. 

“A woman’s shoe,” Morse said grimly, and Thursday swore. 

“There’s a knife missing too.” It wasn’t adding up to anything good. Morse had moved to the door now, peering out across the snowy garden, into the trees that lined the back of the house. The woods behind the Reid’s home stretched on for a few miles. Morse pointed across the snow, where it was just possible to see a trail of messy footprints. Thursday’s jaw tightened and he nodded his head towards the hallway. 

“Get on the phone to Strange, I want a car and an ambulance. I’ll see if I can’t catch up with Mrs. Reid.” Morse looked as if he were going to argue, in fact he opened his mouth to do so, but Thursday was already out of the door. Sometimes with Morse it was about doing, rather than saying. 

Doing his best to avoid walking through the disturbed snow, Thursday followed the trail to the back of the garden where a gate swung ominously in the breeze. He pushed past it, eyes catching on the scrap of fabric caught on a sharp edge of the lock; pink, with a floral print of some kind. This really wasn’t looking good. He hurried himself onwards, across and into to the woods. Though the snow was making the footsteps harder to follow, Thursday found with growing horror, a new path appeared on the snow. Blood, dark and stark stood out on the dusty white. It didn’t take long for the droplets to become splatters, and then, as he moved further into the trees, into puddles. 

As Thursday rounded a corner, a few things happened all at once. The first, was that he found Mrs. Reid - sprawled out on the floor, her throat cut and dress ripped open. Secondly, a voice from the left, malicious and dark, that just said “Too late.” Thirdly, the sudden sensation of being jerked backwards, and at the same time a dark shape thundering past him. 

There was a cry, then another, and Thursday heard himself call out as he found himself thrown into a tree, leaves falling and icy water dousing him from above. The dark blur that had ambushed him took was a person, now he looked properly; Morse. The other voice had come from a man, who Thursday could now see was Mr. Reid, and he had been about to launch himself at Thursday when Morse jumped in. 

Reid was reeling, just as shocked as Thursday at Morse’s sudden appearance, so the DI took the opportunity to lunge for the man, pushing him to the ground easily. He clapped a pair of cuffs on the bastard, rattling off his rights as he turned to glance over at Morse. 

“Good timing there Morse- Jesus Christ!” Thursday’s heart dropped. 

Morse was hunched over himself, hands hovering uselessly over the chef's knife protruding from his stomach. Thursday spared the man at his feet one glance, before landing a punch square on his jaw. He clambered then, to his feet and then Morse’s side in seconds. The idiot had jumped in front of a knife wielding maniac, for him, and now he was paying the price. 

“Morse? Morse, what the flaming hell-” his hands grabbed at Morse’s shoulders, and just in time it seemed because Morse dropped like a tonne of bricks. His mouth gaped wordlessly, and he jerked under Thursday’s hand. Blood already soaked the front of his shirt, and fear tangled in his throat as Morse let out a thin moan. The only thing he could hope was the ambulance was faster than Strange. It might be too late for Arelene Reid, but he would not watch Morse bleed out on the snow.


	5. gunpoint

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 05/31 - gunpoint right and Thursday ft. angry ppl with guns
> 
> i don't think i've ever written for bright lol i hope i did him justice? sorry it's late i was busy last niiiight!

The boy was young and reckless. While he wasn’t a trained killer, or anything like that, it was quite often worse. Killers had patterns, predictable movements. Mad little boys with guns and daddy issues were wild and unknowable. The gun brushed against Bright’s temple. 

“You want to watch where you’re pointing that thing,” Thursday said cooly, though he was anything but. He hoped he managed to look half as unflappable as Bright did right now. The kid, Alex Richards, twitched, gun whirling around to wave in Thursday’s direction. He swallowed down the flickering memories that brought, ignored the phantom pain in his chest and nodded at Richards. 

“There’s a good lad, why not just put it down?” He moved his hands up slowly, calming. If he could mediate between Sam and Joanie when they went at each other, he could deal with this. “Let’s talk, hmm?” Richards nodded, but his hand tightened around the gun. 

“Talk? Yeah, okay, let’s talk; let’s talk about how  _ you _ ,” he lunged towards Bright, who simply blinked back at him. “Took  _ everything  _ from me, you lot, you ruined  _ everything! _ ” His free hand came up to grab Bright’s shirt, and at that the chief finally took offence. 

“Do let go you brute,” he said. Thursday took another step closer, heart in his throat as the pistol came up between the two of them. Bright’s eyes darted towards it, then back to Richards. 

“That’s not going to solve anything now is it?” Bright asked, one eyebrow raised casually as if he were asking about the weather. Richards growled. “Might make me feel a bit fucking better though,” he spat, before he flung up an arm and pulled the trigger. 

The sound of the gunshot split the air, and for a terrible second Thursday couldn’t move. All of a sudden his body apparently realised it wasn’t hit and he could move. Richards though, was unmoving. The gun was on the floor, Richards empty hand held up by Bright’s own; had he knocked the gun from his hand as Richards shot? The boy’s mouth was gaping, lips moving silently as he twisted in Bright’s grip. 

“Now, that’s quite enough of that now, don’t you think?” He said, firmly pushing the boys hand down. Thursday quickly bent and snatched up the pistol, whilst Bright pushed Richards towards the door, one hand still wrapped around his arm. It was only as Thursday followed out behind he noticed the growing stain on the sleeve of Bright’s jacket. 

“Sir! You’ve been hit,” he said, reaching out unconsciously to press a hand to it. Bright hissed at the touch but shook him off. “A flesh wound Thursday, I’ll have someone see to it shortly.” With that he marched the boy off towards a waiting car, leaving Thursday to stare blankly at the blood on his fingertips.


End file.
